Mycroft's Cross
by WhiteGloves
Summary: John Watson chuckled to himself as he watched his friend busily sorting the stack of newspapers on his desk. "So," he began amused, "What did you do to finally piss Mycroft off?" In which the Holmes brothers had a serious dispute. And John Watson gave counsel. (John POV) brotherholmes


***Mycroft's Cross** *****

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 _One-shot, before I get shot for not doing it XD_

 _On John's musings of how far the brothers will go?_

 _ **Thanks for reading :)**_

* * *

John had been making a face the whole afternoon and it was not because of the lack of input on his _blog_ that had been forgotten for months, not even because of the new talent Mrs. Hudson seemed to have discovered which included a microphone and newly obtained blasting stereos downstairs. No, although he had to speak about that to her later, that was not it. Not even the absence of Mycroft's car ready to abduct him anytime was that bothering.

So who else would be the sole reason for his lined forehead?

The answer came in a pair of slippers that strode in from the kitchen, the hem of its owner's robes whipping on his wake, his dark curls tousled and disheveled, his very appearance that of a man who hasn't left his abode for a week.

It was actually _three._

John had been a silent observer since a week ago of this peculiar behavior of his flat mate. It was not unusual for Sherlock Holmes to not get out of 221B even for a whole month, but to stay _in there_ without having his vaporizing chemistry experiments touched, his accumulating human pieces on the fridge unchecked out, his emails and twitter constantly nagging every thirty minutes that would only get a brief or no reply from the detective at all— clearly his friend was going through something the doctor doesn't know yet—but how come _John doesn't?_ Most of the time the doctor would hear him speak of his thoughts out loud that would make him aware of things happening whether he likes to or not. What was going on that would deem even the most loquacious consulting detective tongue-tied?

With this line of thoughts, John watched his flat mate cross the room as if desperate to be busy and buried himself on the pile of newspaper he found on his desk that he had left alone for a good measure of two weeks. Mrs. Hudson faithfully kept dropping the delivered items on the desk without complaints even as the pile _piled up._ John didn't mind it piling up either knowing Sherlock's tendency to lash out when his papers were touched, till of course it nearly covered half the table as their subscription was not limited to _one._ And there he began his sorting of crime from level 1 to _level Sherlock_. There was a thing called level Anderson before but the two of them thought it too stupid a name.

Nobody really wants to recognize _Anderson's_ existence—let alone his name for that matter.

John shook his head after ten minutes of wait, wondering if his friend would start his habitual monologue but when it never came, the ex-army doctor took it up to himself to stand up and peer at the mantle where Sherlock keeps his jack knife and pieces of papers. With a glance at his shoulder towards his friend, John detached the knife and took the paper on top of others that presumably was Sherlock's latest case, its content making the lines on his forehead go deeper as understanding hit him. So this was what's been going on? John blinked as he slowly turned around him with the paper on his hand that contained one letter but was enough to shake 221B it seems.

 _M_

John Watson chuckled to himself as he watched his friend busily sorting the stack of newspapers on his desk. "So," he began amused, "What did you do to finally piss Mycroft off?"

Sherlock appeared surprised as he glanced around at the doctor who was standing at the heart of the rug near the fireside, obviously unaware of John's presence.

"Huh?" he replied, his dark eyes falling on the piece of paper on John's hand. His eyes then they flickered but whatever crossed his mind seemed to have been sealed on his lips as he turned back on his newspapers without speaking.

"You didn't say anything." John pointed out with a step toward his flat mate.

"What?"

"You didn't say anything—I thought you must've replied in your head—like you always do. I'd like to hear it."

"Why?"

"Because I'm interested Sherlock. Come on tell, why are you and Mycroft finally on none speaking terms—"

"What makes you think we're on none-speaking terms?"

John shrugged. "You're not the only one doing this job for a long time, _I can observe—"_

"Good, tell me, can you sprout wings too?"

"Shut up. Mycroft's car hasn't been in this area for a month, I haven't heard his God Save the Queen ringtone on your mobile for weeks, no bloody messages on my ATM or mobile either, and Mrs. Hudson suddenly acquired a quality microphone and stereos from a secret _admirer_ delivered by a woman in heels- stereos that must've cost fortune? Tell me again why I don't think it's not a serious row."

"You're nosy." The newspapers shuffled.

"Yeah, like that's not what we do." John rolled his eyes, finally reaching the side of Sherlock, "We're good at being nosy, Sherlock, so spill," a smirk appeared on his face, "how'd you piss him off?"

"What gives?" Sherlock refused to look up. "What made you conclude _I_ pissed him off? Could be the other way around, couldn't it?"

"It could. But you're obviously not talking about it which means you feel you're the one at fault or you've not convinced yourself enough it's Mycroft's fault—which means it's your fault." John finished simply, watching Sherlock finally turn to him with thin lips.

"I didn't _piss_ him off. He got angry on his own."

"Yeah, but he's really not talking to you, is he? What did you do? Burn his house? Ate his cake?"

"Why do you sound so happy?" Sherlock stared at him in a weird way.

"Do I?" John couldn't help the chuckled the escaped his lips and had to explain at the bewildered detective, "Oh, come on, between the two of us even Mycroft's never that _tolerant_ , except of you. Lots of people wonder how he's able to keep up with you and you're Sherlock Holmes. The man's bound to snap—and people wouldn't blame him."

"Who's lots of people?" Sherlock demanded, "Wouldn't blame him for what?!"

"He's seriously the only one who can stand you." John muttered to himself, "Which makes him _odd._ Which makes me _odd."_ John shook his head and found his best friend watching him _oddly,_ "Now he's really pissed. What did you do?" he asked again.

"It wasn't my fault he's incapable of seeing the fun of things."

"What did you do?"

"It doesn't matter because I don't care." Sherlock whirled around his seat and began piling his newspapers on the floor without another word and when he was like that the doctor knew it was futile to convince him. He looked down at the paper on his hand again and wondered if he should find out on his own when they heard their flat room's doorbell ring twice. Sherlock's head rose like a dragon sniffing the air hopefully, then John watched him stand up, head for the window just as they heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door, and then the detective turned towards the doorway expectantly.

John crossed the room to the other window too and saw a black car outside.

"Boys?" came Mrs. Hudson's voice, still hoarse from last night's singing, "Handsome mail man." She disappeared with a tap on the visitor's arm, probably even winked at him because the man had this bizarre look on his face. John saw him— a tall man wearing a complete black suit and tie (mail man?) enter the room with eyes on Sherlock who quietly observed his visitor who stopped after a step from the door.

"For you, Mr. Holmes." He said, obviously aware whom he was speaking to, "From your parents."

Sherlock took the envelope and saw postcards from Hawaii. With an eyebrow raised, the detective threw it on the small table on his left, his eyes not leaving the mail man.

"They're coming back for a visit." He explained to John who stood beside him, then to the man, "Where's your boss?"

"Mr. Holmes says it is addressed to you and wishes that you handle the matter on your own. Good day, sir." He bowed and attempted to leave, but not before Sherlock clicked his tongue, remove his sleeping robes and took his dark suit hanging from the stand, muttering to himself. "This is as far as he goes. Bring me to him."

"But sir—" he interjected uncertainly but Sherlock was already on the stairs, leaving him with no choice and with John bringing up the rear, saying—

"Wouldn't miss this for the world."

* * *

Ten minutes later, after some unsuccessful persuasion, the man walked in the cabinet office with the pair right behind him. It was only past two and according to Sherlock's memory, his brother, who was a man of schedule, would always be found in his office here and there they find themselves, standing right outside his office, where Anthea, or as John remembered her, was stationed at the table right outside it. She recognized them as they approached and immediately dialed for her boss before they could even reach her table.

She gave them a wary look as she listened on the other end, not even asking for the delivery man's reason and waved him away. The man in the suit bowed a little and then disappeared, leaving Sherlock and John staring at her—John mostly— and waiting for the door to be opened for them. Or Sherlock would burst right in, John could feel him itching to do so but for the sake of not getting on the bad side of his already pissed older brother, he held his ground.

A long pause, then Anthea dropped the line and nodded at the two.

"Please, head right in." she especially gave Sherlock her attention. "Mr. Holmes is expecting you."

"Thank you," John told her as he strode after Sherlock who was already inside by the time he stopped smiling. The doctor followed suit and was amazed by the British Government Head's wide room with basically shelves for walls, a single tall window, and elegant ceiling. There was only one portrait behind his desk and it was of the queen. Mycroft was seated behind his black table, wearing his favored blue three-piece suit; he was scribbling notes on the paper in a folder in front of them and did not give any inkling that he heard them come. John was unsurprised at this cold greeting but to basically shrug them off was unlike Mycroft Holmes who was the epitome of _sheer politeness_ even when insulting people. Mycroft, who even when angry with his brother, would always be the first one to make amends because he was the older of the two and the man with the better mind and experience, now really in total silence.

 _He must've been really pissed._

"I can't handle the two of them on my own, Mycroft." Sherlock said without prelude as he went straight for the table, making John sigh and follow for Sherlock's insensitivity. "I don't plan to babysit two grownups for a week."

Mycroft did not glance up nor did he stop writing. Sherlock stood directly in front of him but he paid him no attention. John was already making a count down of Sherlock's outburst in 3, 2—

"Stop writing, I'm talking to you."

Mycroft did—and what he did next made John's eyes to widen. The older Holmes did stop writing but he did so painstakingly as if there was no one around. He did not hurry, he just quietly capped his pen, put it on chest pocket, snapped the folder close and stood up from where he was seated.

And he did look at Sherlock, only this time, very briefly and full of dislike. John had never seen Mycroft give his own brother a look so sharp and edgy, so completely reproving that rendered the younger silent.

John had never seen it happen. Until now. He felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. Even he was ignored by Mycroft who proceeded on staring ahead as he stepped away from the table and walked pass them.

Before John knew it, Sherlock had stepped aside and blocked his brother's way. The doctor felt his own heart skipped a beat as the two Holmes stood almost face to face with the consulting detective looking uncertain. Mycroft was determined to ignore him still until—

"I am… sorry."

John wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it come out of Sherlock's own lips. _For Sherlock to apologize?_ Not that he thought the man incapable, but to apologize to Mycroft? What could have happened between those two?

Mycroft stood still for a little while; the doctor saw the muscles on his jaw tighten and wondered if the older Holmes would now be satisfied since this was his own brother apologizing.

"I'll handle them." He said in a matter of fact tone, still unmoved and not looking directly at his sibling, "You can leave."

He ignored John as he passed him, leaving the two unmoving on the spot till the door closed after Mycroft. John did not notice that he was holding his breath and when he did, he took in a lungful of air. What the hell was going on here? Mycroft—did Mycroft just dismiss them without actually forgiving his brother?

The doctor waited for the storm that was Sherlock whose back was still turned towards the table. John didn't know how to comfort him—or maybe stop him from wrecking havoc in that very tidy room because that was what Sherlock was likely to do— to apologize and get ignored? Not that it hadn't happen between them before but—

Then Sherlock walked out of the room.

John tried to follow him but the detective's feet were so fast he was halfway on the corridor before John could even come out of the room. He stopped by the doorway, looked at Sherlock's direction, and then headed for the opposite corridor where he saw Mycroft still walking. He rushed after him.

"Mycroft!"

The older Holmes stopped after three calls and a threat to disturb his next meeting. Mycroft turned, stopping just before he could reach the connecting glass bridge to another building. He looked bemused, his eyes narrowed and without a trace of mercy. Probably the eye contacts he uses when facing political figures—or everyone else for that matter.

"Doctor Watson." He said curtly, and John sighed after still being recognized. "I wouldn't advise on any threats, this is not 221B, your choice of words will be self-incriminating."

"I don't care—"

"A trait you seem to share with my brother." He got more coldly still that made John pause, "A cross I have to bear. Are you not supposed to be with him now? He must be looking for you."

"Let him be, he's never noticed." John waved away and went on, "What the hell was that about?"

"Inappropriate words. What kind of arrest do you want?"

"Stop playing games with me, Mycroft." John pulled himself at the bizarre turn of events because at the end of the day, this was still _Mycroft,_ the guy who begged him to look after his younger brother. They had that mutual agreement so why would the older Holmes leave him at it now? "What's happening? How come you and Sherlock—"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and then sighed. "Of course, he wouldn't tell you. Too embarrassed, too worried of how you would see him, but always untroubled of how he may turn up in my eyes. He's overly fond of you, good luck with that." He began leaving but John wouldn't let him—

"What does that mean? How did the two of you ended up this way?"

"I prefer it if you discovered on your own."

"I did—I wouldn't have realized it today if I didn't!" Mycroft stared at him in amazement, making John press his eyes tight and asked— "How long have you been like this? Three weeks?"

"Two months." Responded the older Holmes quietly.

John's mouth dropped open. Two months and he only just realized now? No wonder Mycroft was ogling at him like he was some sort of unidentified fish—

"Hang on, what is this about, really? You know Sherlock wouldn't tell me—"

"Why would I tell you?" a raised of eyebrow enough to turn anyone to stone was offered by the older Holmes, "Are you, in some way, going to harass me with threats again? Because if you do one signal from me and you'll be around bars. Are you aware that all cameras are on you now?"

"I don't care." John unconsciously raised his eyes to a camera on his two o'clock, "I'm not asking of something top secret!"

"You are." Mycroft hinted darkly, making John feel the chills go up his spine. "As inexplicable as it sounds to you, Sherlock was able to raise his _idiocy_ to a certain degree that affected me personally. I don't think an apology is quite enough to make him see the error of his ways. I am not inclined to tell you, I am sorry doctor but I have somewhere I have to be."

"Sherlock will cause a riot," John called after Mycroft's back, "You know he will! The last time I ignored him—the last time we had an argument you know he raised hell!" He remembered his late wife's last words and it made him close his fists tightly. Mycroft stopped on his tracks but never turned.

"I don't have that kind of influence with him, doctor. I think that problem is an isolated case. Sherlock and I, we don't have that kind of sentimental relationship. Good afternoon."

And he left, leaving John staring after him and vowing to make Sherlock Holmes speak or he would raise hell _too_ with his curiosity. He just hoped Sherlock wasn't too angry to be disagreeable.

* * *

"WHAT?" John exclaimed later when he forced his friend to finally speak, after of course, a ceremonious 'leave-him-on-his-own-till-he-is-ready' and give him nicotine patches out of the blue. They aren't actually nicotine patches, they were medical patches with less effect. Sherlock noticed but ignored the fact and told him anyway. This was the doctor's reaction. "What do you mean you proposed to the granddaughter of the _queen?"_

"It was part of a plan," Sherlock said sounding quite vexed as he sat on his favorite chair, "I got a tip that the father of the young lady was unknowingly stopping her from marrying because of an insurance money he could claim as long as she doesn't. He's already an extremely well-off man whose got debts across England and with this in mind I had to challenge—so I went ahead—introduced myself to her and we got along well—how else do you think it would end up?"

John stared at his friend and never doubted his prowess in terms of the opposite sex for after all, he could be charming when he tried. The doctor blinked and shook his head.

"Mycroft found out?"

"Only after the engagement."

"He got angry?"

"After the marriage."

Now John was flipping. "What the bloody— _marriage? You got married?"_

"It's naturally fake as long as the right documents are not signed." Sherlock said nonchalantly, waving his hand in the air, "Mycroft found me out during the engagement and warned me not to pursue the path since he's already covered the father's plan. It was his fault, he got in the way and _tried and stop_ my progress."

"So what— _you continued getting married just to spite him?"_

Sherlock looked away sheepishly. "It was all planned. He shouldn't have meddled."

"What happened to the girl?"

"After the marriage? Mycroft pulled her out and stopped the whole dancing sequence during the reception." Sherlock never looked at John anymore, "Said it was all a misunderstanding. He found out because the queen was supposed to be there—how was I to know I didn't arrange the whole thing."

"Jesus, Sherlock…" the doctor facepalmed and sighed.

"Too much?"

John looked up, "Bit too much, yeah. How come I didn't hear about this on the telly?" Then the answer came naturally to him as he sighed again, " _Mycroft."_

"My brother thinks it's a personal vendetta." Sherlock said darkly, staring into space. "Whereas I tried to explain it was a job that needed to be done. How could I say no to a lady insisting she wants to be wed?"

"No—he's mad because _you never listened._ "

"When did I listen to him?"

"Look where's that got you?" John shook his head again, "I'll leave you to handle this. But I don't think Mycroft will be lenient with you anymore. Whether you apologize now or tomorrow won't make a difference. He's made it clear to me you need to learn your lesson—"

"Like I care." Sherlock snapped, finally looking at his friend, "If I cared enough you think we'll still be like this for almost two months?"

"If you didn't care enough why would you scribble your brother's initial on a paper and stab it on the mantle?"

"Not his." Muttered the detective.

"Look," John sighed as he put both hands together, "I'm not really good with sibling relationship—I don't even know where my sister is but… you really want to continue this way?"

"I've already apologized."

"You did and Mycroft didn't forgive you. So what—another two months? Six months? Three years before the two of you idiots make up? When was the last time you had a row with your brother? Sherlock—you always do but it's Mycroft who's always come looking for you!"

"Untrue." Sherlock frowned. "I always do come to his office—"

"For favors, or maybe with attitude that quite says, 'forget the past'. Otherwise he forgets what you did, overlooks everything but this time he can't. I think he's seriously trying to cut off connections with you and you're the only one who knows how far he will take this. Ten years' time maybe. I wouldn't know. I haven't seen Mycroft this cross. I mean he's always cross, but never to this extent."

Not at how John saw him today.

"Another two years maybe." Sherlock sighed as if already deciding. John stared at him and remembered Mycroft's words: _I don't have that kind of influence with him, doctor. Sherlock and I, we don't have that kind of sentimental relationship._

Does that mean it was always alright for them to disregard each other? It was fine with Sherlock from the very beginning but for Mycroft to sing the same tune? _Would Sherlock be fine?_

"I think you're making a big mistake." John sighed finally, "Your brother may have a gray moral when it comes to his work, but he's always been loyal to you. When loyalty is broken, Sherlock… even you know what that means."

Silence greeted his words and so the doctor didn't pursue anymore as he stood up from his chair and bid the detective a goodnight. He didn't know what would happen next time these two willed and powerful forces will collide again, he didn't think it wise for them to be divided, really. But sometimes people take on path that separates them from people they had been used to and they grow. But Sherlock, in his reality, was never really good at that. John saw it before, when he got married to Mary. He grows with people, not _without them._ The Holmes brothers may not always be together in a space, but at least they stand together. Sherlock may say Mycroft was never really there but he grows on the fact that he had someone to fall back to—such was Mycroft's role.

Yet it was also quite possible for the detective to ignore his existence once and for all—what was his mind palace for? Sure he may need a help here and there but with Mycroft refusing, Sherlock may find himself independent of his brother. Was that a good thing?

Then it hit John— _this was Mycroft's plan from the beginning._ And no, ten years wouldn't be enough. But would that mean ten years of Sherlock's catastrophe without Mycroft's supervision? John somehow dreaded the idea.

He turned on his bed and sighed in his sleep, really unable to sleep. He thought he heard the door downstairs open and heard footsteps walk in the corridor but it was all in his head. He didn't know what time he finally dozed off but the next morning, John was aware of the silence that enveloped the flat. Because then Sherlock would usually be heard clamoring downstairs for Mrs. Hudson or to the invisible John he's talking to. So instead of silence comforting John, the doctor pulled himself up while still in his pajamas, and headed downstairs.

And found the surprise of his life—for there seated on the chairs opposite one another—were Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes playing _Cluedo._

"This is the most annoying game." Mycroft said with some feelings as he threw away the card he was holding with a curt of eyebrows at his brother, "How can a knife wound be found, and no knife was among the choices of weapon?"

"That's why I said," Sherlock grinned, " _Victim kills himself."_

"I vote for nails." The older Holmes looked over the suspects, "Ahh. She did it." With a glance, Mycroft regarded John with an eyebrow, "Terribly late, Doctor Watson. Good morning."

"He's always late." Sherlock quipped.

"I don't doubt it. He didn't sleep well. Why do you think, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smirked at the doctor. "I wonder."

John blinked at the two, before shaking his head and headed for the washroom. He remembered the person going out of the flat in the middle of the night, that one person who also seemed to crash in his brother's house just to persuade him to play Cluedo? A lot of things seemed to have happened in one night and John was too beat up to ask so he went and turned, but not before muttering under his breath—enough for the two to hear—

"Ten years of worry gone just like that. Thanks you two."

 _What the Holmes brothers could do!_

* * *

-The End-

* * *

 ** _A/N: One of the last XD How many are lasts?_**

I don't know either! Every time i see a photo of Mycroft Holmes I always have this compulsion to write!

And I've been pondering over what ifs Mycroft gets angry with Sherlock XD

 **Thanks for reading! ^_^**

 **~W.G~**


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